The Invincible Ocean
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: Now I've been sitting on this abandoned beach for years/They keep you far from me, the emptiness; it means it's not over
_A/N: Just in case anyone thought I was going to stop writing Charlie and Blake angst: You have been misled. I'd like to point out that this is not a continuation of or related to Into the Field, it's just written in the same format. With these two short fics done im going to spend the next week working on my big fic :-) Warnings for coma/head trauma/ medical procedures. I'd like to point out that I am not a medical professional and all details were learned from the internet. Please leave a review if you liked it! (Quote for The Invincible Truth comes from Pure Feeling by Florence + The Machine, quote for The Endless Ocean comes from Folding Chair by Regina Spektor)_

 **The Invincible Truth** \- _And the illusion starts to tear,_ _l_ _et everybody stand and stare_

Lucien Blake is many things. But he prides himself on two, being a doctor, and being a father. He'd always thought that the two were interlinked, that he could combine them into one unique balance of bandages for scraped knees and calming words for the inevitable tears. He liked to think that it was what made him such a good father, for the time he had been one. Perhaps that was pretentious of him, to think he was a good father, but if he didn't think that then what would he have left? He's afraid of the answer.

It was also what made this situation so heart breaking. No amount of bandages or comforting words was going to fix Charlie Davis, no matter how much he wanted them too. The only sound in the room was the soft rise and fall of Charlie's chest as he took in life giving air, his lungs turned it to carbon dioxide, and he let it out before it poisoned him. Being a doctor also made him painfully aware of the struggles that any body must go though to even survive. He supposes that might be why he's still here.

For ever humiliating medical indignity Charlie's body was forced though, Blake waited by his side. Every sponge bath to wipe imaginary dirt away, and cleanse his skin of sweat, he stood nearby, not wanting for Charlie to wake up in the hands of strangers. The time they cut his hair, he made sure it was cut the way he liked it, and parted it himself when they were done washing it. He was the one who brandished the razor and removed dark stubble from his face, because Charlie hated stubble. He was the one that made the choice to have a permanent feeding tube fitted into his side, because he couldn't bear to look at the tube crossing his face, or push one more thin tube into his nose, and examine the contents of his stomach acids one more time.

Perhaps it was bordering on obsession, perhaps it was bordering on love. Perhaps it was a mix of both. Perhaps it was that he wanted to memorize Charlie the way he should be, instead of the way he would become. He was sitting on a fence, on one side, there was the chances that he would wake up, and on the other was a vegetative state where he would decay. If he fell into the vegetable side, then his muscles would waste, he might live, but it would not be life. If this were what the future held for them, then he would take Charlie home, put him back in the upstairs bedroom and care for him by himself. If he fell onto the side of wakefulness, then he would go through the slow and agonizing process of returning to his body. And Blake would be there. He would have to relearn things, and have to regain use of his voice, perhaps he would never be the way that he was. But he could be alive, actually living, and that was what Blake wanted most.

His supposes that his visits are becoming less now. He can't not work, he can't not go to crime scenes. Charlie would never forgive him if he came too and murders had gone unsolved and people had gone sick because of him, he'd be devastated. Blake wonders if his hatred of his outcome is for the people who would suffer without him, or if he simply wants to keep Charlie's affections. It's as if the thoughts have become mixed in his head and what's worse, he's got no one to share them with. Jean wouldn't understand, Mattie wouldn't care and Lawson would tell him to grow up. Charlie didn't have anyone either, not really. Most of the people he would have thought he'd had have shown their true colours. His mother sent him away to this place, this long term care unit, his friends were too sad to come see him, so it was only him. The pair of them two birds sitting on a wire, waiting for the current to shock them.

It's a sad truth of life. Most people walk away from bad things, and he doesn't blame them. He knows Charlie wouldn't either. Despite his flaws and problems, Charlie was a kind boy by nature. He'd been understanding and sad and happy and beautiful all at once. And this? This was just a husk. A stagnant form. A nothing. Still and silent and inhuman. He takes Charlie's hand in his own and carefully looks at his trimmed nails, before tightening his grip slightly. Charlie doesn't reply, of course. Blake is making plans in his head.

He wanted to take Charlie home with him. He was tired of this place, of these walls. Each day brings the diagnoses of vegetative state closer, and he needs to prepare. He's running a mental checklist of things he will need, if Charlie comes with him. IV stands, saline, clean sheets, syringes, scissors, toiletries (Razor, shaving cream, lip balm, nail kit, plastic comb) cloth...His thoughts drift from the list, because he can't continue with the train of thought, he doesn't even like thinking about the ramifications of Charlie's continued care too much. It seems so final. So finished. So...Impersonal.

But that was why he was here wasn't it? Here in this endless ocean of grief and mourning. The cycle that left you equal parts breathless and broken hearted. It was an inevitable truth. He was here because no one else could be. No one else could cope with having to treat a grown man like a child. No one else would have the stomach to hold his hand while people he didn't know washed and groomed him. No one else could even consider doing it themselves, and why would they?

The realization is as bitter as it is startling. Charlie is unaffected by his revelation, as still and quiet as ever. Then, there is a very brief twitch of an eyelid that makes him perk, but nothing comes of it, he realizes it was just wishful thinking, and the hope is crushed as soon as it is born. The cycle begins again. Grief continues.

An eyelid twitches.

 **The Endless Ocean -** __ _My feet are buried in the sand and there's a breeze There's a shadow you can't see my eyes_

Charlie's clothes are damp, this much he knows for sure. He's not wet, exactly, just damp. Like he's been standing in..Sea spray? The pervasive smell of salt clings to his skin and his clothes, coating them in a sticky dampness. He opens his eyes slowly, and finds that he's standing on a beach. Behind him, the ocean stretches on for a million years, unconquerable and unsailable.

The water laps at the sand, stroking it with a kind touch, and stripping back the top layer, revealing hidden defects and flaws below. He follows the sand with his eyes, watching as it spread out ahead of him, and into the distance, as far away as anything he's ever known. The sand is wet and soft under his feet, as if it were regularly washed over with the lapping waves. In one direction, all he can see if the cloudless sky meeting the unyeilding sea, and in the other, the land meeting the sky. He thinks that even if he walked for a thousand years then he will never reach the end of this beach.

Looking around for something, anything, distantly, to his left, he sees two chairs and a figure. Curious as to who is trapped here with him, he makes his way towards them, taking his time to enjoy the walk as he went. He loves the beach, even if he's only been here once before. Looking down, he realizes that he is barefoot, and that he's rolled his pants up to his shins, too little good. The sand is soft and squishy between his toes, and the air tastes like salt. If he didn't know better then he could even be happy.

As he approaches the figure, he realizes that it's Lucien, similarly undressed. He's gone down to his plain undershirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his navy trouser legs are rolled to his mid shins. He's sitting in a folding chair, the sort that you might take to watch the cricket, and resting his feet on a portable foot rest. His hands rest on his stomach, and he's looking peacefully out to sea, but grins when he sees Charlie.

"Charlie!" he exclaimed, "Please, sit, make yourself comfortable!" So he does. There is no foot rest for him, not that he would have used it, and the chair is just a little too small but he doesn't complain. After all, he is quite tall compared to Lucien, so it makes sense that he would be sitting in Lucien sized chairs. "Doc!" He said, excitedly. "Where are we? How did we get here?" he asked, looking around again at the endlessly expanding landscape. Lucien gave him a slightly sad look.

"You're in a coma, Charlie." Charlie's eyes widened, but he suddenly felt a stabbing pain in his head, and when he reached up, his fingers came away bloody.

"What? How?" He wiped his bloody hand on his trousers and looked back at Lucien, who was starring at him intently.

"You don't know that." Lucien told him cryptically.

"How did you get here?" He asked, determined to find some kind of answer. Lucien watches him blankly for some seconds, before turning his attention to the ocean.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" He asks, watching as the waves roll up to them, and he sinks into the sand as the water strips the top layer out from under him. Charlie lept to his feet, realizing that his own chair was also sinking into the sand. It dawns on him very suddenly, that this was not his Lucien. This was someone or something else pretending to be him.

"Doc! You're sinking!" He yelled anyway, as another wave washed over his feet, pulling Lucien's feet down into the sand.

"I've always really liked the beach, nice to take a vacation from stress you know?" Lucien continued conversationally. "Didn't have many beaches, or any, actually, beaches in Singapore. I missed them." Charlie's eyes widened suddenly, as a third wave continued to pull him down, and he feels himself become stuck.  
"Doc!" he yells, trying to reach out for him, his fingers somehow breaking the paralysis, and finding Lucien's fingers, and pulling.

The sand refuses to relent, pulling Lucien further and further away from him. Charlie's can't believe he has to save him, Lucien's always been able to save himself before, always seems so invincible, but he's not now, not any more. How can he be invincible when he's being tugged into the sand? Charlie manages to get a grip on Lucien's arm and begins to pull firmly out of the sand. It's not helping that Lucien isn't moving. He pulls again, and there is an almighty squelching noise as the sand tries to keep it's grip and pull Lucien down.

Charlie won't let it. He digs his heels into the sand as well as he can and pulls and pulls and pulls. Lucien comes free with a sucking pop, and Charlie pulls him up onto the earth. The man dusts himself off in an inefficient way, and sand continues to cling to his skin and clothes. He looks alright though. Slightly disheveled but okay.

A silence passes over the beach. Charlie turns to look out at the rolling ocean, the waves have become silent and then at the chairs as they're sucked under the surface. Lucien turns to look at him, really look at him. His eyes are covered in a shadow from a sun Charlie can't see. "You should go home, Charlie." He advises. Charlie gazes back at him, and looks down to the hands he's still holding.  
"I'll see you there."


End file.
